


One Hundred Ways to Say "I Love You"

by OwlPost7



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:52:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6035158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlPost7/pseuds/OwlPost7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on <a href="http://sherlockyouidiot.tumblr.com/post/139436142767/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you">this</a> post on Tumblr.</p><p>One hundred ways Sherlock and John say "I love you."</p><p>Each chapter stands alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pull over. Let me drive for a while.

John Watson has always loved long car rides.

He isn’t picky about them - he enjoys all kinds of long car rides. He loved them when he was a child and his family went on road trips, playing around with Harry in the back seat as their parents sang along to songs from years past. He loved them when he was a teen and he and his friends drove to someone’s beach house for half term, the dark night covering them as they sang at the top of their lungs with all the windows rolled down. He loved them when he’d go to a bed and breakfast with some girlfriend or other during his uni days. Hell, he’d even loved them in the army, the long drives in the desert sun, making crude jokes and singing songs and taking the piss with the other members in his unit.

But this. This is his favorite kind. 

They’ve just spent a delightful Christmas with Sherlock’s family down in Cornwall, full of family and food and music, and everything he’d forgotten how to miss in years past. They’d planned to leave in the afternoon the day after, but Lestrade called at about three in the morning with a case, so they’d packed up quietly, said a quick goodbye to Mummy and Daddy, and left in the dark.

They’ve been driving for about three hours now. Verbal exchanges had been growing fewer and farther between since the first hour mark, replaced with comfortable silence over the hum of the engine and the soft, acoustic songs coming one after the other from the radio. The atmosphere is warm and comfortable and soft, and John had drifted off at some point, awoken some time later by nothing in particular.

Forehead resting on the glass as Sherlock drives, John watches as the sky begins to lighten gradually, lazily, like the sun has spilled itself over and doesn’t feel like picking itself up. The soft light bounces gently over the frost that cover the fields they’re whipping past, giving everything a new, clean feel. 

John wipes the sleep from his eyes and looks over at Sherlock, who is gently tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel to the slow beat of the song that’s currently playing.

John watches him quietly for a minute, a smile slowly taking over his lips. Eventually he can’t help himself any longer and reaches over to lay his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, rubbing gently.

“Hey.” John’s voice is rough with sleepiness and disuse.

Sherlock smiles and leans in slightly to the touch. “Hey.”

He looks over at John for only a second before returning his gaze to the road, but it’s enough for John to see the tell-tale signs of a tired Sherlock - heavy eyelids and shadows under his eyes.

He moves his hand from Sherlock’s neck to his cheek, gently touching the space under his eye with his thumb.

“Tired?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m fine John. You know I don’t need as much sleep as you.”

John used to think Sherlock never got tired, actually, what with his running around for seventy-two hours straight whilst on a case on various occasions, but he learned rather early on in their acquaintance that this phenomenon was spurred on by adrenaline and the urge to see a case to its close, rather than a superhuman lack of need for rest. Sherlock sleeps just under an average amount when he’s not on a case, it turns out, and right now he’s weighed down by a few late night and a very early morning, so it’s no wonder he’s tired.

Sherlock apparently feels John’s gaze still on him, because he rolls his eyes again and says, “I‘m fine!” The end of the sentence is lost to a deep yawn, and John simply gives him a look. Sherlock looks at him from the corner of his eye and has the decency to look a little chagrined.

John sighs deeply as he stretches the sleep out of his muscles, bringing his hand back to his side.

“How long have we got?” A yawn interrupts him in turn, and he covers his mouth with his remaining hand. “Before we get to London.”

Sherlock looks at the digital clock, glowing bright blue. “I’d say between two and two and a half hours.”

Looking at the road ahead, John sees the sign for a rest stop at the next exit. He taps Sherlock’s shoulder and points toward it.

“Pull over. Let me drive for a while.”

Sherlock sighs. “John, I’ve told you, I don’t need to-”

“Sherlock.” He says it softly, but in a way that leaves no room for argument. “Come on.”

Sherlock sighs again but turns on the turn signal anyway, and John smiles.

\--

Five minutes later, John’s pulling back out onto the road, and Sherlock is fast asleep on the passenger seat, his mouth slightly open, revealing the very tips of his two front teeth.

John looks over and an overwhelming feeling of fondness runs through him.

He shakes his head and turns his gaze back to the road, whispering, “God, I love you.”


	2. It reminded me of you.

Sherlock straightens the small box sitting on John’s chair again. He’d switched it around different places in the flat for at least an hour, trying to determine the best place for John to find it before deciding on the chair.

It was nothing to make a fuss about, really. Just a small touch to express his appreciation to John, like the everyday kisses of good morning and goodnight, the occasional backrub after a long day. No big deal. He got this particular idea a few weeks ago, but his searches both throughout the city and online proved fruitless, so he had tracked some people down, made some calls, then surreptitiously taken measurements of John’s wrist to make sure to get the right size, et cetera, so it had taken a while longer than anticipated. Still. It’s not a big deal.

Sherlock hears the front door open downstairs and he quickly darts to sit in his own chair, legs extended in front of him and hands steepled under his chin. He rolls his eyes internally at how easy it is to fool John into thinking he’s deep in his mind palace when he assumes this pose, but he supposes it’s proving convenient at the moment.

“Sherlock?” John’s muffled call comes from downstairs, his tone revealing a long but satisfying day at the surgery. There’s no answer from the detective as John climbs the stairs, but Sherlock had made sure to leave the telly on to confirm his presence in the flat - ever the soldier, John does tend to jump to the wrong conclusion when Sherlock’s whereabouts are not immediately clear.

He closes his eyes an instant before John walks into the room and listens patiently as John removes his coat and hangs it up on the back of the door, takes his shoes off and places them against the wall, and softly pads towards him. The TV suddenly goes mute.

Sherlock can feel John standing in front of him for a moment, and then there’s a rustle of clothes and a soft thud on the rug indicating John has likely knelt down next to the chair, and there’s a hand slowly stroking the hair away from his forehead.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is soft, his breath warm against Sherlock’s skin.

Another rustle and suddenly cold, slightly chapped lips fall on Sherlock’s, trying to coax him out of his mind palace the same way he has on numerous occasions. John used to do it by shaking Sherlock awake or turning the telly up, before they got together. As a warm shiver runs through Sherlock at the contact, he can't help but think that he prefers this method by far. 

He makes John's lips work for it a few seconds longer before kissing back slowly, and he can feel the corners of John’s lips curling upwards.

“Hey,” John says when they pull away, looking into Sherlock's eyes, a soft expression on his face. The fingers at Sherlock's brow slide down his temple and caress his cheek.

“Hello.” He takes the hand on his cheek and brings it to his lips, kissing the inside of John’s wrist. “How was your day?” He already knows the answer to this, of course, but John likes being asked, likes to pretend he doesn't know that Sherlock knows, so he asks anyway.

“Good. Nothing extraordinary happened, really. People were patient. Said please and thank you. Didn’t get thrown up on, that’s always a plus,” he chuckles.

“Mmm,” he agrees, eyes closing again.

He feels John stand back up and stretch, evident by the soft, drawn out groan and the popping joints. A few steps pad softly on the rug. 

“What’s this?”

Sherlock’s eyes pop open once more and see John pointing at the strategically placed package on his chair.

Sherlock shrugged, suddenly nervous. “Just something I got. For you. It’s no big deal.” He quickly stands and walks over to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and staring at the newest piles of petri dishes stacked in the corner as he hears the bag rustling behind him.

John says nothing. The silence drags on until Sherlock can’t take it anymore and closes the refrigerator, turning around to tell John he doesn’t have to keep it if he doesn’t like it until he sees his face.

John looks at the watch, sitting in it’s windowed box, like he’s just discovered an ancient relic of a time gone by, eyes full of wonder and curiosity and an awe bordering on childlike, and then he looks up and turns that look on Sherlock and it sends a thrill up his spine as he walks back into the room to stand in front of John.

“How did you get this?”

“Well, I-”

“How did you even know to look for this?”

“Remember when we-”

“It was the picture, wasn’t it?” John’s face lights up even further, somehow.

Sherlock smiled shyly and nodded. It was, in fact, the picture. The old, time-worn picture of a young John Watson sitting on the lap of an old Hamish Watson, laughing at some long-forgotten joke. Sherlock had tucked the picture away into his mind palace and had been oddly captivated by the watch on the elder man’s wrist, so when he began thinking of ideas of what to get John, it seemed like an obvious choice. Sadly, the original had been caught up in inheritance squabbles decades ago, so a replica was the next best thing.

“How did you know? That I wanted the watch, I mean. Don’t get me wrong, you know your deductions are brilliant, but there’s no way a single picture could tell you I always wanted that watch.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t deduce it, I just... I saw it in the picture and... Well. It reminded me of you. It looked like something you might like.”

John looks down at the watch again and Sherlock’s gaze follows. The brown leather strap looks soft and pliable, and the gold case band gleams beautifully.

John’s eyes are watery when he looks back up at Sherlock. “Thank you.” He chuckles out a short laugh and rubs his eyes with one hand, nodding to himself. “Thank you,” he repeats, and pulls Sherlock in by the neck for a kiss.

Years later, Sherlock will still smile every single time he sees the watch sitting on John’s wrist.


	3. No, no. It's my treat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, everyone! I had some trouble coming up with a fill for this one that wasn't basically a copy of the last chapter. That, and engineering school decided to kick my ass for a little bit. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s the middle of the summer, the 2 o’clock sun streaming in through the windows of the posh flat they were called to by Lestrade not an hour earlier. It’s a hot day even by regular London summer standards, so much so that Sherlock didn’t even take his Belstaff for the investigation. John stands a bit to the side as he watches Sherlock run around the flat, narrating his conclusions as he reaches them.

“... which makes it clear Miss Bunting here was not the victim of a lovers’ spat as your inept team thought at first, Lestrade,” says Sherlock, taking a moment to give Anderson a look, at which Anderson rolls his eyes, “but rather the mind behind a murder-suicide. Obvious, really, to anyone willing to take more than a cursory glance.”

Sherlock straightens up from his crouched-down position next to the young woman’s body and flicks his eyes at John. Feeling cheeky, John smiles and winks at his boyfriend, whose resulting smirk and faint blush give John a strange sense of achievement.

\--

“That was amazing,” says John a few minutes later as they leave the flat and head for the lifts, having finished wrapping up the case. “Took you what? An hour?”

Sherlock smirks, pressing the button for the lift. “Fifty-two minutes. All the evidence was in the flat, it was only a matter of finding it, really.”

There’s a ding as the doors open and they climb inside. John takes advantage of the empty cabin as the doors close once more, gently but quickly pressing a surprised Sherlock against the mirrored wall.

“It was brilliant,” he says before pressing his lips to Sherlock. He both hears and feels the soft startled sound escape from Sherlock’s lips, and John can imagine the accompanying little furrow of his eyebrows. He can’t quite explain the feeling that the mental image gives him, but it only makes him kiss Sherlock deeper.

The crime scene had only been four stories up, so it’s a short snog, but not one lacking in intensity for it’s lack of duration. They pull apart just before the doors open again and John strides out confidently. He hears Sherlock clear his throat behind him, taking a second to compose himself before following, and smirks.

They step out of the building’s lobby and straight into the afternoon sun. John can feel Sherlock’s good mood coming off him in waves, the same as every time he solves a case, even a simple one like today’s.

They’re so close to Baker Street they decide to walk even despite the heat, talking about the case and whatever else crosses their minds. 

A few minutes into their walk, Sherlock stops mid-sentence, his eyes widening at something in the near distance. John follows Sherlock’s gaze and spots an old-timey ice cream parlour, all pastels and golden decals in an elaborate font on the windows advertising all the different flavours of ice cream awaiting inside the shop. And there, in the lower corner...

“Honey.” John watches Sherlock’s eyebrows lift and his lips pop apart a little bit at the pronouncement, his two front teeth peeking out as he searches and finds the confirmation on the window, and  _ God _ , but John loves him.

In the early days of their acquaintance, John had been surprised to discover Sherlock’s fascination with everything bees. Maybe he shouldn’t have been, what with all the bee diagrams hung up on the walls and the apiology textbooks on the shelves and the constant supply of a wide variety of honey in the cupboards at Baker Street, but he was. At first he’d thought it was a purely scientific interest - and he supposed it was, partly, but it went beyond that. A few more years into their friendship revealed more and more evidence - most prominently, Mummy showing him pictures of a little eleven-year-old Sherlock at a science fair with an award-winning presentation about the little buggers - that bees were, simply put, Sherlock’s favorite.

Without tearing his eyes away from the parlour, Sherlock lifts a hand and taps John’s shoulder. “John-”

“Yeah, come on,” says John with a smile, shaking his head and pulling Sherlock by the hand towards the shop.

It’s absolutely packed inside, which is no surprise considering the rising summer temperatures. The shop is just as traditional on the inside than on the facade with its checkerboard linoleum flooring, antique cash register, and booth seating.

They stand in line for about ten minutes before getting to the counter, Sherlock fidgeting excitedly the entire time.

“Hello, welcome to Scoops, what can I-”

“Yes, we’ll have two medium cups. Honey.”

The young man behind the counter stares at Sherlock. John clears his throat and Sherlock looks at him, confused. They look at each other for a moment until John lifts his eyebrows and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“ _ Please _ ,” he says to the cashier, who sighs and rings up their order, reading the total out to them.

“No, no. It’s my treat,” says John, pulling out his wallet when Sherlock begins to pat his pockets to find his own.

“What? Why?” asks Sherlock, a furrow between his brows as John hands over the money.

“Because.”

“I’m perfectly capable of paying.”

“I know you’re perfectly capable of paying,” says John, turning to walk along the counter to stand in front of the glass-windowed display where another employee is scooping out their order.

“Then why didn’t I pay?”

“Sherlock.”

“ _ I _ wanted to come inside, you had no reason to-”

“Sherlock,” says John, an exasperated smile on his lips as he turns to fully face Sherlock. “I just wanna buy you some ice cream. That’s it. It’s a hot day, you love honey, we walked by an ice cream parlour that sells honey-flavoured ice cream - surely it’s not so terrible for me to buy you some?”

Sherlock looks at him for a moment before deflating and replying. “I suppose not.”

“Here you go.” The employee behind the display hands over their cups, each with two scoops of golden ice cream and a generous drizzle of honey. They thank her, take their cups, and exit the shop.

“How is it?” John asks as Sherlock takes the first taste.

“Unsurprisingly excellent.”

“Good. Maybe that’ll teach you to let me treat you once in a while,” John says with a smile, which Sherlock returns with a smaller, shy one.

They keep walking, talking and eating their rapidly-melting ice cream. Sherlock laughs as John gets some on his shirt collar, and John gets revenge by smearing some around Sherlock’s mouth.

They finish their ice cream just as they reach 221. They enter the blessedly cool flat, say a quick hello to Mrs Hudson, and climb the stairs. Sherlock wastes no time in pressing John against the back of the door, and leaning down for a quick but thorough kiss.

“Thank you for my treat.”

“You’re very welcome.”

They both smile as they pull each other back in, and they kiss until the taste of honey fades from their lips.


	4. Come here. Let me fix it.

John stands in front of the antique mirror, undoing and redoing the knot of his tie for what he’s sure must be the thousandth time in a row. He’s never been any good at ties, and now his hands are nervously jittery on top of that, so all in all, the tie situation is just not going quite as smoothly as he’d like.

“John?”

Sherlock’s head pokes into the room through the door to the ensuite bathroom. The softness of his voice washes over John, who closes his eyes and gives up on the tie, dropping his hands.

He hears Sherlock’s footsteps approach him, and then feels his long hands wrap around his waist, pulling him in close from behind. John instantly feels more relaxed, like the physical contact from Sherlock is taking him miles and miles away from Sherlock’s aunt’s absurdly large house in the country and back to Baker Street.

John doesn’t even know why he’s so nervous, really - he’s already met Sherlock’s parents. They already know they’re together. He hasn’t met the rest of the surprisingly populated Holmes family, though. Can’t say he’s ever spent a decidedly too-elegant Christmas party with them before, either. He’s never even attended a black tie Christmas party, come to think of it.

No, no, he definitely knows why he’s so nervous.

“Relax, you’ll do fine,” says Sherlock from behind him, dipping his head and pressing his lips to the back of John’s neck. John feels a much-welcome warmth radiate through him from the point of contact. He finally opens his eyes, meeting Sherlock’s in the mirror.

“How do you know?”

“I know everything,” he replies, faux-haughtily.

John gives him a look through the mirror, until Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“I know because you’re an intelligent, good-looking, well-mannered ex-army doctor with nerves of steel, who has saved my life countless times in every dangerous crime fighting-related scenario imaginable. If they could work up a fawning fuss over Allen’s lawyer wife, they can certainly work one up over you.”

John ducks his head and smiles, feeling comforted despite himself.

“Besides, contrary to apparently popular belief, my family are not entirely made up of complete and utter arseholes.”

“What a ringing endorsement,” chuckles John.

Sherlock gives him one of his favourite small, crinkly smiles through the mirror and his arms give John a reassuring squeeze before they ease away from his torso. John watches him walk back towards the bathroom to finish getting ready, subtly appraising the graceful lines of his body as he walks away.

John sighs and shakes his head before straightening up and returning to the task of trying to make his tie look presentable, but despite the fact that Sherlock’s little pep talk did actually help his nerves a bit, his hands, the tie, or both remain uncooperative. He growls in frustration after another minute, prompting Sherlock’s head to pop out of the bathroom once more to find the source of the commotion.

“You’re making a mess of that, come here. Let me fix it.” Sherlock stalks towards him and takes John’s shoulders in his hands, gently coaxing him around to face him rather than the mirror, then moves to the stubborn piece of woven silk hanging from his neck. A few seconds of crossing and slipping and tugging later, a neat full Windsor sits between the points of his collar.

“Thought you didn’t wear ties,” John grumbles.

“I’m not exactly the poster child for happy family Christmas reunions, either, and yet here we are.”

John sighs and tips forward, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s arms come up to wrap around him, chin resting on top of John’s head.

“Will you still love me even if your aunt Beatrice has a heart attack at your peasant boyfriend’s table manners?” The question is muffled by the soft fabric of Sherlock’s dress shirt.

John feels Sherlock’s amused exhalation on the top of his head. “If it were possible, I think I’d love you even more. Beatrice favours the occasional, poorly concealed back-handed compliment as her main form of communication.  _ And  _ she’s a wet cheek kisser. Always has been.”

John has to giggle at that.

“Your table manners are impeccable, John Watson. Everything about you is impeccable.”

John tilts his head up to rest his chin on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock reaches down with his own and brings their lips together in a chaste, reassuring kiss.

A soft knock comes through the bedroom door. Their lips pull apart and John tries to disentangle himself from Sherlock’s arms, but Sherlock holds him firmly, refusing to let go, and calls out to their visitor to come in.

A tall young woman emerges from behind the door, elegantly dressed in a long, emerald green dress.

“Sherlock? Are you two about ready?” The Holmes resemblance is readily apparent, what with the dark curls and ice blue eyes and posh accent. By the looks of her, she must be somewhere around Sherlock's age.

“Are they calling for us already? It’s not even six,” replies Sherlock, arms still firmly around John.

“No, I am. I’ve been downstairs for half an hour and Beatrice has already told me I’m  _ so brave  _ for wearing a dress I like without caring how it makes me look.” The woman rolls her eyes, then leans further into the room and looks at John directly. “Hello.”

John smiles tightly, trying fruitlessly again to extract himself. “Hello.”

“I’m Charlotte.”

“John.”

“Yeah, I know. Sherlock’s never brought anyone to meet the family before, I can’t imagine he’d sneak in an extra one for secretive cuddling.”

“Charlotte.” 

“What? You haven’t!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and John chuckles, the nerves in his chest easing a bit.

“Anyway, are you ready to go yet or not?”

Sherlock looks down into John’s eyes with the question in his own. John nods once.

Sherlock smiles reassuringly, slides his right hand from John’s side down to his left, curling around it and pulling John towards the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you've been thinking of these little vignettes! Feel free to leave a comment or drop by [my tumblr.](sherlockyouidiot.tumblr.com)


	5. I'll walk you home.

Sherlock sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” replies Lestrade’s voice from the stakeout van’s speakers. “Video surveillance and several eyewitnesses confirmed her getting on a plane to Mumbai at Heathrow.”

Sherlock sighs again. “Fine. I’ll be over soon to look over the files again. Don’t do anything before I get there, understood?”

It’s Lestrade’s turn to sigh. “Got it.”

Without another word, Sherlock presses the button on the console to hang up. The team starts packing up in silence, tired after a fruitless eight-hour stakeout.

Sherlock half stands, half crouches, and walks over to the front of the van where John sits, deeply asleep in the passenger seat. Usually the adrenaline, the on-duty mindset is enough to keep John wide awake and alert on stakeouts, but this time he’d barely been home for two whole minutes after a fourteen-hour shift at A&E when Lestrade called them in to wait for one Catherine Turner, serial murder suspect, to return to her flat to be apprehended.

Sherlock glances around the interior of the van surreptitiously, making sure no one, especially Donovan, is looking. He feels an irrational stab of jealousy over John’s sleeping form, like only he should get to see John this vulnerable. Luckily no one is looking, so he turns back to John. Gently, he begins to stroke his hairline, brushing the gold-and-silver strands away from his face.

“John. John, wake up.”

John inhales deeply, his mind easing awake slowly.

“Is she here?” John’s voice comes out slurred with sleep as his heavy eyes blink awake.

“No, Turner hasn’t shown, but Lestrade just called with a lead that she’s not going to. It seems she’s left the country, headed for India.”

“Oh.” John rubs his eyes. “So what now?”

“There’s nothing left to do here. I’m taking you home, and then I’m going to the Yard for to work on the case for a while longer. She’s clearly the murderer we’ve been looking for, there  _ has  _ to be a link between her and those two disappearances back in May.”

“Mkay,” John replies automatically, as it takes a few seconds for his melatonin-addled brain to actually process what Sherlock is saying. “Wait, whadya mean you’re taking me home? You’re not coming with me?” Sherlock almost smiles at the almost childlike petulance in John’s voice.

“No, I’m going to the Yard. After I take you home, come on.”

“No,” said John through a yawn, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m coming with you.”

“John, you’re exhausted. All I’m going to do at the Yard is go over all the files again and try to make sense of the evidence. This case is a five at most, there’s no imminent danger to anyone’s life. All that would happen if you came with me is you’d spend a few more hours dead on your feet watching me work, and then you’d become subconsciously resentful against me for keeping you awake, and frustrated at yourself because you’d feel like you should be of more use.”

John opens his mouth to argue, but Sherlock gives him a knowing look and he deflates a bit and rolls his eyes instead.

“Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

“Fine,” John sighs, but Sherlock knows he’s being contrary mostly just for show; he can see the hidden relief in his eyes at the thought of going home.

John’s joints pop when he stretches again and stands, pulling his jacket back on. Sherlock slides the van’s door open and gestures for for John to climb out first, then slides it shut behind himself when he follows.

It’s not a long walk to Baker Street, which is why they’re walking in the first place instead of taking one of the Yard’s cars there. Sherlock estimates it’s around six in the morning, meaning the sun rose only a few minutes ago, and the juxtaposition of the pale, rosy sky and the early, loud hustle of pedestrians, cabs, and cars is slightly jarring after spending eight hours in the quiet isolation of the surveillance van.

They walk in silence for a few minutes, John yawning and rubbing his eyes near-constantly. He gently leans against Sherlock after a couple minutes of walking, taking Sherlock’s left hand in his right.

Once they reach the front door of the flat, Sherlock digs through his pocket for his keys with his free arm and opens it. John takes a step inside and turns around, tugging Sherlock closer to him for a quick kiss on the lips.

Sherlock sees John’s tired eyes open slowly as they pull away, heavy with fatigue but warm with the soft smile on his lips.

“Thanks for walking me home.”

Sherlock lips quirk up in return. “Thank you for letting me.” A gentle jab at John’s stubbornness, sure, but also a reminder of how grateful he is for John Watson, for a life that allows him to walk John Watson home and kiss him on the threshold of their home before carrying on with a day of detective work. A life full of work that he loves and a man that he loves. He wonders what a twenty-year old Sherlock would have thought if he could see what his life would become.

He shakes himself out of his momentary soppiness and leans in for another quick peck and a promise to call later. He turns and walks away then, the soft thud of the door closing behind him and the promise of an good day ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the last update for a couple weeks, as midterms are coming soon! I swear this little project is by no means abandoned, it's simply gone on vacation for a bit :)


End file.
